Alternative
by velocitygirl4455
Summary: For a long while, Arthur had been growing fond of alternative music. He was changing and it was time to leave his punk days behind. AU, human names used.
1. Chapter 1

The smoke curled in the air.

The bar was crowded and loaded with strange sounds and sights, but to the man sitting alone in the booth, it was absolutely silent.

Arthur Kirkland, recently 23, was sitting and nursing his drink. The ice clinked and shivered around the glass as he took a long swig. His leather jacket crinkled and memories came slithering up his mind.

It wasn't his usual hangout.

Usually, he would go to a concert, get hammered and rage against the world. The unfairness of life, screech at the winds, destroy the peace. This bar was different.

He went there because, over the past few years, his music sense had been changing.

He was now into alternative, a quieter, equally unhappy, more in depth form of his beloved punk. It all started two years ago, the music, but the memories were from much earlier.

He was sixteen.

The air was petulant and perfect. The wind blew, not too strong but with enough force. The sky was grey and the ambiguous grey sky swirled unimaginably fast. The trees blew their green leaves as a few stray drops fell from the sky.

Arthur was walking home from his friend's house, one of his only few girl friends. They were working on a project. The project was unfinished but Mariana needed to see her boyfriend that night. She was a nice girl, a bit upfront about many things, but nice and wholesome.

Arthur got the call right inside his front door.

A drunk driver had struck his friend, killing her. No exceptions, no negotiations. She was gone. Away and far too far to come back.

He didn't cry, not heavily at first. He couldn't let his brothers see him, the unmovable brother, so weak. He was the rock; the silent, constant force that kept the family tethered to reality after their father had left their mother. Even through his mother's new marriage, he was the surrogate father. He hated trying to discipline his brothers, he didn't like to be the bad guy, but it fell to him. It _always_ fell to him.

Then, alone in his room with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him, he wept and cursed at the dark being lurking there. It had stolen his friend; not a good friend but it was someone near to him. That was enough to matter.

His heart was fully broken by four in the morning. This new Arthur, cold and distant, wouldn't feel anything. Instead of being the strong silent one, he would just be the rock.

He later got a call from the police; they questioned him about when she left. That's when they told him.

The drunk driver was injured slightly, but the friend of the driver, who was also in the car, had switched seats and driven the car away. The police would most likely never bring the man or his accomplice to justice.

That was the final blow for Arthur.

He would never be the same creature. The quiet but tolerable and somewhat snarky man was gone. In his place was a stone, no longer a steady rock, but a stone meant for slinging and throwing and destruction.

But he couldn't stop being the brother, as hard as he tried; he still felt the loyalty to his family. So for the remaining years in secondary school, he studied and tried and pushed himself to be the best to leave the whole damn country. That's when the obsession with punk music began.

It was filled with yowlers. They turned their back on the people and places that scorned them and destroyed their world with a nice 'fuck you' attitude to finish.

With his scholarship to a 'college' in America, he left and changed almost over night. The secret piercings came out, a vicious tattoo across his left shoulder made itself known, he wore dark clothing, he rejected the opposite sex altogether. He went out every night and partied hard, getting drunk and getting fucked by anyone who would take the broken man and make him whole. If only for a moment.

It was through his attempt to destroy himself bit by bit, that he met Gilbert. Gilbert led him to a long string of people that eventually led him to Alfred.

_Alfred Bloody Jones. _The man took another drink. _Scourge of my life._

Alfred was the opposite of Arthur. Alfred was the shining example of American can-do spirit. He was a model citizen, a 'hero' of the masses, a good kid and naïve boy. His life was perfect. That was until Alfred decided to mess with Arthur.

Well, he wasn't _messing_ with Alfred per say, he was just annoying him. And somewhere deep inside Arthur, some sprig of his old personality raised its head. It looked at the sun that had flitted through his barren heart and it hoped against hope.

No one would ever dare mess with Arthur; even the toughest American jock or jarhead wouldn't cross the slight, short Brit.

He had the look in his eyes, the look of a man that had nothing left, that would cloud his emerald eyes and reduce their sheen. He was broken and beaten, and with nothing left he would fight until his last drop of blood spilled.

But Alfred did.

He pushed past the thorns and the thistle and he talked to the man. He bothered him and he annoyed the man until the old personality, with the snippy comments, would be drawn out. Soon, Arthur began to look forward to their daily dalliances. And soon, it wasn't the conversation that made him look forward to a new day. It was the man himself.

Alfred became his personal sun, the object he revolved around. If the man appeared, the day would be better; if not, the world had better watch out.

Soon, the touches between the too, the nicknames and the insults, softened. Alfred would add things under his breath, things that he didn't think Arthur would hear.

But Arthur did.

And so the relationship began.

It wasn't anything more than a reliable fuck at first. But it opened a small crack in the stone. One crack, it is said, could destroy an entire city, let alone the broken man's heart.

So for a year, they would take their fury and unleash it on each other. It was _just_ raw lust and passion. But it was towards the end of the first year that the kisses smelt of something different. Time would be spent with a tad bit of care. The fingers would linger instead of bite.

It was then that Arthur heard the song.

He was crawling through the dark alleys of the Internet, when he heard a song that made him weep for the first time in a long while. It ripped open his soul and poured out the hopelessness and the hate.

The ghosts swirled around him and for once it was quiet.

He needed that song. It became his new anthem. It talked of the loss and the lust for something better, the fights and the insanity left in the wake.

It made him begin to turn to the alternative songs. The songs that also talked of destruction but returned it with equal parts hope, the lilting melodies carrying him away. To a happier time. A time when he was whole.

It haunted him for weeks, permeating every corner of his brain and his being and refused to budge. He wrote pages and pages of his emotions with this song, rewriting the lyrics separately over and over. Possessed. Seeking. Holding out for the truth, he searched. He memorized every word until it finally broke him. Alfred was there, getting started when it just hit him. The emotion was fitted into the slot that that song had made and he cried like a child for the first time in years. The tears were not silent, but they were pure. They dotted the bed and Alfred took the man, still broken, into his arms.

But the stone was still there. It lashed out, striking Alfred. Arthur stood above him and cried, Al's cheek red.

Alfred left. The door was not slammed shut but gently pushed closed. It was worse than anything. Arthur had no clue what to do.

"_I just stare at the clocks,"_

"_And I cry in my sleep"_

"_And I tear up your letters"_

"_And I burn them in heaps"_

"_And I gather the ashes"_

"_In that hole in the ground where we fell."_

So Arthur, unsure of anything, dragged his ass to a different bar. A bar boasting alternative music near the upper west side that he would hopefully hear this song again. Just once, he needed to hear it.

Just once.

[Author's Note]

Yo,

Anyway, this is the first I'm writing of Hetalia, so ya know, don't hate if you don't know it yourself. The song is _Wishing Well_ by Airborne Toxic Event. Amazing song and it fits this weather perfectly. To best fit the fic, listen to the song on repeat feel what Artie feels.

~VG4455


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur continued to frequent the bar. He heard the song once, maybe twice but he had gotten so tossed most of the times that he would never know for sure. The floor pulsed with every beat and yet the man still listened to the silence.

Over the next few months, the sun refused to come out. The visions of the past and present flew about him. They lashed at him and, occasionally, they would comfort him.

He continued to drink, but slowly the black leather and piercings began to leave him. He still talked to his friends, albeit distantly, and still continued with his schooling. He was on autopilot now. School. Home. Drink. Repeat. He started to dress like he did before the accident. _No, not an accident, _he would tell himself. _A murder. _

He was still there but the man was still broken. Still dormant while the sprig of hope lay defeated on the floor.

But one night was different.

He was sitting in the same booth, enjoying his fourth rum that night, when he saw her. She was sitting at the bar; drink in her hand, silently guarding her against the night. She would have been her twin, if the two were next to each other. She was dressed in a simple white dress; the fabric clinging to her tanned skin. The glow of the bar catching in her curly hair as she turned to greet her date.

Alfred, the git that he was, didn't know whom she looked like. Didn't know that her nose crinkled when she laughed and that she made small twittering sounds when she was amused.

He brooded for the hour that they were there. Alfred was the perfect gentleman. Caring, always paying for her drinks, making her laugh.

There was something off though. Every so often he would stare into the murky depths of the bar, away from the safety of the bar lights. As though he could tell. But then he would turn back Mariana's twin. He could tell she wasn't that interested. Her gaze went farther than his, as if gazing into the distance would somehow bring her closer to the object of her affection.

Then, Alfred whispered something in her ear. She looked at him with a look of confusion for a moment, and then flashed a dazzling smile. But Arthur knew it was strained. He just knew. They stood up, looking for a bartender to pay their tab.

Arthur stood up quickly as well, dropping the fifty he had been fingering for the last hour on the glass-laden tabletop. They began to make their way towards the door. The beat of the bass pounded in time with Arthur's heart. He had to catch them – he needed to keep his heart and his life separate – he had to see her.

He almost caught up to them, when they were exiting out the door. But Mariana turned back, looked into his soul, gave a half smile and fled the bar. Outside, through the windows, Arthur could see her catch up to him. Grasp his hand like a lifeline and tilt her head to whisper in his ear. He smiled down at her, slightly strained at the edges, and wrapped his warm arm around her. His arm. The arm that had held him in the wee and the long hours of the night. The arm that had pushed him and held him so softly, it could have belonged to another. But it was _his. _

Something inside Arthur boiled, some forgotten wheels began to turn and strike against one another. He felt electricity course through his veins and he could see nothing but the pair. The blonde dashed out side, stumbling across the curb. _His._ It echoed in the silent world, the only word he had not used in a while.

The only thing that had made him feel whole (ifonlyforawhile) was being stolen by his past. It was going to consume his sun and spit out the husk in a blinding supernova of passion. He could not, and would not let that happen to Alfred. _His _Alfred.

He would not let it taint his life any longer. He followed them up the street, stumbling and grasping various signs for support. People looked at him, pointed and mocked, but he didn't care. The man with the dull eyes had purpose once again.

He finally caught up to them, right below Fifth Avenue, near the subway entrance.

"Hey, Oi Git! Wait!" He sounded so stupid and clingy. He couldn't rely on anyone, yet here he was.

"Arthur?" Alfred turned back. Mariana – no, wait, it wasn't Mariana anymore – turned as well. The glitter on her cheeks sparkled like the city skyline.

"You can't do this." Arthur babbled moving closer to the sun. He was the new Icarus, destined to burn up for his pride. "Y-you can't, not with h-her." He tripped and Alfred grabbed him. Those arms, so warm and so soft and so strong, held him together.

"What the hell are you talking about Arthur?" The American leveled himself with the drunken man, trying to grasp what was different about him. He had seen Alfred buzzed before, slightly high, and asleep and everything in between but this was different.

"She's not real!" Arthur stamped his foot on the ground, looking several years younger. "She's not real." He whispered the last bit. Arthur started to leak, bits of his soul riding towards the ground along with his tears. Alfred simply looked at him.

"Ma'am, I've got to take this. Maybe I'll see you another time." He didn't turn towards the clone, keeping his blue eyes steadily on Arthur.

The clone said nothing. She just faded into the backdrop of the citizens of New York City, the harsh light of the subway station causing her image to fade.

"What the fuck was that all about, Arthur?" The taller blonde was trying to keep his voice low. People, even at this hour, streamed past, head low and walking in that New Yorker style. Arthur, despite how much he loved merry ol' London, probably loved New York second best. He needed the anonymous city desperately. He tried to stare at all the faces but it made his head spin. _Can't have the past and present mix, old Arthur is gone _were just about the only thoughts in his mind.

Eventually, his vision led him back to the American fixing him with a stare that could freeze people in their tracks, the face that could launch _millions_ of warships and the eyes that one could only be drawn to. Arthur shook his head before the blush could overtake his face. New Arthur refused to blush; it was a weakness he despised.

"I…" his words failed him. He tried again. "I c-couldn't let you see h-her. She wasn't-t real…" The Brit was now having an even harder time focusing now that he realized the proximity of Alfred and the warm hands calmly gripping his shoulders.

The American stared at him for another minute, before releasing his shoulders and standing straight.

"Alright Iggy, let's get you home, then you can explain to me what the hell is going on." He scratched his head and looked thoughtful for a moment. "But I don't have your address… so, I guess I'll just take you home." Arthur said nothing.

Alfred wrapped his larger hand around his cold one and began to pull him out of the subway tunnel and onto the streets. The sky had christened the streets of New York with slight rain. It stopped five minutes into their walk. Arthur didn't dare look at the people he was sure were staring at him. He couldn't stand the fact that now everyone knew he was holding hands with a man. His dirty little secret, his need to be full, was out.

So instead, he stared at the streets, letting Alfred lead him through the twisting streets, watching the glittering sidewalk with interest. _It's like looking at the sky from above, maybe I can touch the sky from below…_

Eventually they stopped in front of a building with a deli on the garden level.

"Hey, Luís." Alfred called out hopping over the counter and opening the flip top for Arthur.

"_Olà_ Alfredo~." The man returned. "Got a hot date, eh? He your new _puta_?"

"_Vai levar no cu, _asshole." Alfred ignored the man and pulled Arthur into he corridor. They waited for the elevator. "Sorry about that, Arthur. He's just your regular, fresh off the boat, Portuguese dick."

Arthur said nothing in return.

The elevator ride was quiet as well. So was getting the door open and yanking the native Brit into the room. As light filled the apartment, Arthur finally looked up, his neck slightly stiff from the previous position.

The room would be a 12 year-old boy's dream come true.

The walls, a muted blue, were covered in shelves filled with comic books, video games and movies. The posters on the wall advertised the classic American films and comic book heroes doing heroic things. The apartment, while of average size, was nothing special other than the occupant's choice of decoration. There was a living room, worn couch and a TV being flanked by filled bookshelves. Behind the couch was a desk, photographs covering most of the surface, and a laptop, humming along, the top covered by a large American flag sticker. The kitchenette was sparse but clean, the white counter tops and appliances contrasting with the vibrancy of the first room. The hallway that led elsewhere was dark.

"So… yeah." Alfred started uneasily. "This is my place." The words died in the air, much like the crisp leaves of Central Park in the fall.

He sighed again. "Alright, you sit on the couch, I'm going to make us something and then we'll talk."

Arthur moved stiffly and mutely to the couch and sat down, knees bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Alfred bumbled in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, letting the smell of whatever he was doing waft into the living room. He entered, carrying two mugs of what appeared to be hot chocolate.

"Sorry, it's all that I got." He sat down, molding into the couch, comfortable but with alertness in his eyes. Arthur took a small sip of the hot chocolate before setting it down.

The silence, while slightly less scary, was still there. All of Arthur's thought and possible answers had died in his mind. All the work of the walk there was useless now.

Alfred set down his mug before fixing the British man with a stare.

"What was that about, Arthur?"

"She wasn't re—"

"I get that, I'm not stupid. But _why_ wasn't she real?"

"I used to live outside of London when I was younger." Alfred wanted to interject but something made him shut up. The tenseness of Arthur's shoulders, his distant stare, his broken voice that he only used when he was sleeping in the midst of a nightmare.

"I had a friend, Mariana…" he trailed off again. "She was driving to her boyfriend's house when a drunk driver hit her. He murdered her." He turned to face Alfred. "Murdered her and ran off." He stared back at the mug in his hands. "There was no one. None for Arthur." His voice took on a high, mocking tone. "No one for Arthur, who had to be the adult when daddy died, no one for Arthur when his friend died, no one for Arthur whe—when…" his voice petered out as he began to cry. Alfred gathered him in a hug, whispering half words and soft sounds in the still air. _That was the tightness in his shoulders. He held the world, even when it turned away from him…_

"Arthur," the taller man whispered after a few minutes. "You're my hero."

Eventually, the broken man had fallen into sleep. Alfred held him for a few moments, relishing in his smell. The man's regular scent was masked by alcohol and bar smoke, but it was still faintly there.

It was a subtle mixture or tea, fresh grass after the rain and something else…

It wasn't difficult to know what he was feeling was special for this British man. He didn't want to say that at first though. But his Canadian half brother, who looked more like his twin than anything, finally got it out of him after a while. Somewhere around three months, well past midnight, returning home to find the shockingly similar Matt staring at him from the kitchen table. It was scary and very creepy. Like that Russian communist who lived two blocks over and always tried to invite him over. Except it was Matt and he had cookies. And if Al knew only two things in his life, one was that aliens existed and two was that you _never_ passed up anything Matt had made. So they sat together, closer than most people would assume half brothers would be, and they talked about Al's relationship with the mysteriously rude and improper Arthur. Though sometimes Arthur would correct his grammar (_Don't you _dare _bastardize the Queen's English that way_) and sometimes he would tell Alfred how to act (_Sit up straight, will you. It's a wonder you haven't developed a scoliosis that way_) or that he should dress better (_You are a young man and a representative of your parents upbringing, but when you continue to dress like that you are putting you, your country, your generation, the whole lot of you, to shame_). This was very unusual behavior for a 'punk', which he meant in a musical sense, not a Dane-Cook-Punkass-are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind way.

But while Alfred was young, and occasionally (though he would ever admit it) naïve, he could see people's personalities pretty well. He could see that Matt was madder then he let on about Al always forgetting him, or that Kiku— his Japanese-American friend from school—was more perverted then he let on. So it was clear, but not important to him, that Arthur had a secret self that he didn't really care to share. And because it didn't have a significant impact in their 'fuck only' relationship, he let it lie.

But nine months in to their relationship, he felt something different growing in their relationship. At least in his half, anyway.

It had started when he had woken up one morning to soft sounds coming from Arthur's kitchen. Alfred crept down the hall, peeking into the space and catching a rather cute sight. Arthur was singing softly to himself, voice not at all unpleasant, wearing a pink apron over his bare chest and last night jeans ensemble, and cooking _something_ at the stove. If Alfred held his breath and listened hard he could hear the words of the song.

" _I'm riding hard on the last legs of every lie. And the BMX bike of my life is about to explode, I'm about to explode. I'm a mess, I'm a wreck. I am perfect and I have learned to accept: All my problems and short comings, Cause I am so visceral yet deeply inept._ "

Later when he got back to his place, he looked up the song. It was an alternative song, bordering on emo. Something very un-punk. It would probably be damaging to his credibility.

But something stopped him from acting on this.

It was that same feeling from seeing him in the kitchen. Within a month and through his soul searching, he finally knew what that feeling was.

It was love.

Some weak or strange or weird form of love that he couldn't really understand. But he felt the need, the desire, the want to be near that man.

Arthur had fallen asleep somewhere in that revere and was sleeping without dreams hopefully.

Alfred picked him up—he had always been the strong guy and the man was pretty light—and walked him into the bedroom, laying him on the bed and pulling the covers over him. The man unconsciously clenched at the sheets.

He walked back into the room to take care of the mugs. Despite Arthur's sorrow at the girls death, (Mariana was it? Oh well, it was something Spanish or Brazilian. He could easily interchange most of those names from the numerous countries south of the border. Except for that Giselle from Victoria's Secret. She was _hot_ like no other.) he just _knew _that Arthur didn't really know the girl. He didn't have much specific information about her or seemed really choked up about her. Just angry. But that second part, where he talked about all his weights, like the rocks in that _Crucible _movie he watched with Matt that one time, he was slowly being crushed.

He slowly turned on the sink and let the water pour over the mugs, dumping out all the leftover hot chocolate. It was while he was watching the clear liquid rinse over the red, white and blue mugs that he decided what he should do.

He was going to show Arthur that he didn't need to take care of everything.

And with that determined thought, Alfred ran into the bedroom, grabbed his favorite jacket (an old bomber jacket from his grampa), his wallet (Batman flavored FTW) and Arthur's wallet, and then dashed out the door and into the night.

However, he dashed back thirty seconds later, cursing, grabbing his keys, locking the door, and then returning to his heroic hunt.

[Author's Note]

So yeah,

It took me long enough. But as Malcolm said in Jurassic Park, "Life finds away." It's the longest part so far, and I rather love writing as Alfred. In my group of Hetalia-knowledgeable friends, I am America (with strains of PRUSSIA, because I like to remind everyone how awesome I am) so it was kind of cool to play with his stream of consciousness.

So there were a couple of references in this one…

Luìs… he would probably be Portugal, Nation wise. I wanted someone who would point out a part of Alfred that Arthur didn't really know but I also wanted to show some of Alfred's heroic, can-do spirit. The Portuguese that he used is bitch and then Alfred replies with 'go fuck yourself'. So naught, for innocent Alfred… (*o*)

The reference with the weight on his shoulders, its something I think all oldest children go through. I can't remember if I put him as an oldest child, but that's what our responsibilities are. Seriously, our motto should be "when the going gets tough, the tough get going."

Matt being his half brother. I kind of like it better than them both being twins separated at birth or some shit. They have the same mom but she divorced Alfred's dad and moved north, remarried, etc etc.

Loved writing Arthur's prim and proper voice, I just LOL'd.

Dane Cook is an American comedian, who I think is funny, but most of his audience is made of college students and is frowned upon by most 'high brow' comedians.

Alfred being able to know more than most think. I really think he's not as stupid as he lets on.

Arthur with the apron… SO CUTE!

The song is from Motion City Soundtrack and it's called "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die". The other song that is in this part of the story is "Sometime around Midnight " by the Airborne Toxic Event. They're my only favorite band and I love them to pieces.

Alfred liking Gisele Bündchen, how could he not. It's just like my sister and Lady Gaga, she would honestly go gay and marry her if she got the chance. That and Gisele is probably the most attractive, not super skinny model out there. And she played volleyball like a mofo.

Alfred's jacket duh, but his Batman wallet is probably different. Most people pick Superman, but I'm a big Batman, followed by Spiderman fan. I feel he would pick a character that would be more like him (as a human) being that Batman doesn't have powers. And he also has that 'going gets tuff' mentality that he finds attractive. And the Superman movies sucked compared to all the Batman movies. Even the George Clooney ones. (But damn, was Robin hot or what? (~w~) )

_The Crucible_ is a movie about witch-hunts in America. Look up the 'more weight' scene if you want to know exactly what I'm referencing.

Alfred forgetting his stuff just made sense.

So that's it. I think I like explaining this a little better than writing them. Well, not really.

I also loooooooooovvvvvve writing New York City. It's my favorite place in the world. (second fave, Chicago)

Anyway, Here's to 3,458 words,

~VG4455


	3. Chapter 3

[Author's Note (1 of 2)]

Okay, first of all, I'm gonna keep this short.

The line breaks aren't working… . I can go back and put them into the story, but only if you guys want it. It works okay without them but…

Second – to answer my reviewer, Mariana is just a random OC, she doesn't ever come back and the person that Arthur saw in the bar is not a nation or an actual dead girl, she's just a look a like.

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When Arthur woke, he was surprised to find a rather large mass draped across his body. He slowly sat up, looking around the room and trying no to disturb the mass, which in the faint light of the room, appeared to be Alfred. The boy was in a deep sleep, one arm across Arthur's chest and the other touching his shirt. The hand tightened and grasped his shirt, the tension pulling the material and the faces The Gits to his left side.

At first he froze, mind flipping into overdrive and his heart raced. _What the bloody hell happened last night? _He was still dressed and the alcoholic wisps of things floated into place as he scoured his mind for a clue as to what he had said.

When he finally had enough inkling to make an informed decision, his heart slowed its tattoo. He assessed the situation, taking note of the room and the occupant.

Arthur didn't move for a moment, trying to decide on a course of action. _ I can move, but he might wake up. But if I don't, I'll never get home at a reasonable time. Speaking of the time… _Arthur reached into his pocket, and slid his phone carefully out of his jeans. The screen lit up and showed the time at eight thirty.

Arthur wrestled with the idea with a moment before deciding that it would be better to wake him sooner rather than later.

"Hey…" he stopped and thought for a moment. All through their relationship previous to last night, he had been Alfred or git, but now… He wasn't sure what to call the startling man. "Hey, Al. Wake up." _Yes, Al was good for now. Friendly, safe._

"Yes," breathed the man. "Marie… nugum. Marie Curie … she hah… wants a … waff-a… waffle cone." Evidently, he was still asleep.

"Al, wake up." The green eyed man tried again. "Come on, stupid." He gave the slumbering idiot (_your _slumbering idiot, his mind whispered) a hard shove and the man finally began to wake up.

"G'morning Artie." He mumbled. He didn't move though.

"Yes, yes, and a fine and dandy morning that may be, but I shall never know unless you get off me, tosser." Arthur said a bit too quickly, the sharp tongue a little too harsh for the morning.

"Megumflapmelm." The man grumbled, but he released Arthur and rolled onto his back, pulling the sides of the pillow over his ears.

"What?" Arthur asked, getting out of the bed and stretching.

"Just go occupy yourself for a while, I'm still really," A muffled yawn. "Tired."

Arthur frowned at the pillow. Usually, Alfred was the one with the most energy in the mornings, up as soon as he was pulled from sleep and ready for _whatever_ someone could possibly need to do at, say, four-fucking-thirty in the morning. This Alfred, at eight in the morning, was slightly grumpy and _tired. _Uncharacteristically so.

Arthur stared at him, watching the man fall easily back into sleep. He sighed and put the mystery aside for now, looking for something to put on other than his old jeans, slightly stained shirt and to hang up his jean jacket somewhere. He walked over to the dresser, rummaged through the drawers a bit, grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and left the room closing the door slowly. But not without one last look at the American sleeping peacefully on the blue bed.

Back in the front half of the apartment, Arthur found the bathroom, wrinkled his nose at the Spiderman toothbrush in the holder, changed quickly and was now dressed in the childish man's clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror, overlooking his boring, messy hair and immovable, large eyebrows. His eyes, the one feature of his face that he liked, were bright as usual, with only slight rings below them from the deep sleep he had finally gotten. Over the past few weeks, he had just been out partying late at night, rarely sleeping and never seeming to fall into the much-needed REM state. The clothes were another story. The pair of sweatpants, obviously made for someone 'supersized' like Alfred, hung low on his hips, even with the flannel drawstring pulled tight. The shirt was not a plain t-shirt, as he intended, but a soft green button down. _Honestly, who keeps their clothes all jumbled about like that. No organization what so ever. _He left the shirt open, after all it was just Alfred. (Not Alfred-who-made-his-heart-race-forward-but-his-feet-go-too-slow-for-the-speed-he-was-traveling, he reassured himself) He looked a little bit unreal, monstrous sweatpants pooling around his feet, shirt open to reveal his slight frame, hair as messy as could be. _All in all, like a small _child. He sighed again, cursing his small appearance, thin frame and ungainly stance. It was no wonder people assumed him to be only eighteen or even sixteen. But luckily, the bastard who called him that would never think to guess someone's age ever again. Arthur, while small, was no lightweight, getting out of scrapes with three or four other people sometimes.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind, gave the reflected Kirkland a nod, then left the room and entered back into the living room. It was just as bright as he remembered it to be and just as childish. But there was something wistful about the room, something distinctly Peter Pan-ish that the Brit couldn't help but find… intriguing.

Not that he would ever admit to reading _Peter Pan_, of all things, at his age. Though, when he was particularly lonely, he would pull the worn but well-cared for book from his shelf and get lost once again in Mr. Barrie's fantastical world where one didn't have to grow up.

He walked along the slightly sagging shelves, fingers glazing over the spines of the assorted items, stopping to pull out a book every so often to read the back. He was surprised to find not only the _common_ thriller author's, but some famous American classics as well. _He even has Peter Pan…_ Arthur looked at the book, his cheeks slightly flushed at the coincidence but he shook the notion away and put the book back. The desk was covered with more papers than he remembered but the room was otherwise unchanged.

Arthur sat awkwardly on the couch. He decided to wait to see if he could find a washer until Alfred was up, not really wanting to go poking around his room.

He stayed like that, leaning slightly against the couch, for ten minutes before the stillness got to him. It had been thirty minutes by his watch since he had left Alfred alone; surely that was enough for some extra sleep.

At that, Arthur decided to make some breakfast, hoping the smell would be enough to entice the sleepy blonde from his man cave.

He poked around the fridge, noting that it was relatively bare. Switching to the freezer, he noticed some breakfast quiches. He pulled two out, knowing that Alfred would probably eat an entire one by himself, and prepared the small oven. While he was at it, he decided to look for something to go with it. He found a surplus of coffee but not a single teabag in sight. _I could run down the street and find someplace… _ the thought wasn't very persuasive. For some reason, he felt compelled to stay in the small apartment. It wasn't just because he could _possibly _let the whole place go up with the quiches in the oven, or that Alfred might worry if he discovered him gone. No, there was a different feeling keeping him there.

So he stood there, working out what to do now. He eyed the cabinet holding the _coffee_ as if it may open into a demonic dimension and call to him after bringing chaos to the kitchen.

Arthur sighed, stopped, scolding himself for sighing like an old woman so much, and opened the cabinet.

He tottered around the kitchen, feeling even older, when a certain song came to mind. He began to sing the song, his voice quiet enough no to wake the neighbors, but loud enough to fill the room.

"_When I get older losing my hair, _

_Many years from now. _

_Will you still be sending me a valentine_

_Birthday greetings bottle of wine. _

_If I'd been out till quarter to three _

_Would you lock the door, _

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me, _

_When I'm sixty-four. _

_You'll be older too, _

_And if you say the word, _

_I could stay with you. _

_I could be handy, mending a fuse _

_When your lights have gone. _

_You can knit a sweater by the fireside _

_Sunday mornings go for a ride, _

_Doing the garden, digging the weeds, _

_Who could ask for more. _

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me, _

_When I'm sixty-four. _

_Every summer we can rent a cottage, _

_In the isle of Wight, if it's not too dear _

_We shall scrimp and save _

_Grandchildren on your knee _

_Vera Chuck & Dave _

_Send me a postcard, drop me a line, _

_Stating point of view _

_Indicate precisely what you mean to say _

_Yours sincerely, wasting away _

_Give me your answer, fill in a form _

_Mine for evermore _

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me, _

_When I'm sixty-four. __"_

He had a soft spot for the Fab Four. His iPod, the worn thing covered with old union jack stickers, had their entire discography and their lyrics were emblazoned and engraved into his mind. When he was in a peculiar mood, as such, he was prone to belting out his favorites. Sgt. Pepper's was common reoccurrence in his apartment; the words of the offbeat soundtrack fit the Brit perfectly. The coffee was busily hopping to it and Arthur was left with nothing more to do than stand there, watch it and sing; feeling more content than he had been for a while in this surreal world.

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Alfred had not fallen back into sleep. Well, it was kinda like sleep but kinda like being awake. In that state between consciousnesses, listened to the quiet of the apartment. He assumed Arthur was probably waiting for him, angry maybe that he was being delayed. He shrugged it off. Out of anyone, Arthur could never _really _be mad at him. Like his Dad always was when he was trying to punish him for something, he just couldn't be mad because he loved him. Maybe Arthur loved him and maybe he didn't but what Alfred felt for the green-eyed man was real. Just thinking about Arthur sent his thoughts skipping around his mind and bouncing off his skull. The warm feeling in his chest and the shortness of breath. It was uncomfortable, but like a drug he loved and desired.

He had been lying there for a while, staring at his grandpa's bomber jacket that he had given Alfred, when a soft sound began emanating from the kitchen. Alfred, the curious cat he was, decided to slink into the room and inspect.

He stealthily moved down the hall, hugging the corners like the James Bond guy from that movie.

Around the corner, he saw Arthur again.

Alfred could feel his pupils dilating, blood coursing through his veins and the air become nonexistent. Arthur was wearing some of his clothes, looking – for lack of any other word to describe it – _adorable,_ singing in his kitchen. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. As the strains of the Beatles melted and moved in the open air, he could help but sigh softly.

Arthur, like this, was sexier than most people would imagine. His hair was even more disheveled and his voice was perfect, low, sweet, yearning.

He stayed like that till the end of the song.

Then he walked back a few steps and made sounds as he stumbled down the hall. _No one can ever say I didn't learn anything from the movies._

"Arthur?" He yawned.

"Alfred, I'm in the kitchen."

"Hey there." He walked in, roughing up his hair in attempt to look hotter. Arthur was the only person he tried for.

"Sleepy are you?" Arthur quirked a large eyebrow. Alfred almost blushed at the insane cuteness. "Well, then, I suppose you won't be getting any food…" his voice was so light and airy, without any of the tension of last night. He could hear the slight uneasiness in his voice but other than that it was relaxed. His tone and cadence was normal and less stressed than his punk attitude.

"No!" Alfred interjected, rushing into the small kitchen. "I'm hungry enough to hork a horse right now." A slight chuckle.

"You speak in such turns. Well, I suppose it is as the Americans do. Bastardizing any languages that hit your shores."

"Don't dis the greatest country to ever happen just cause your jealous, _tiny island_ man." Alfred didn't really have anything to back up his claims. He just _loved_ to make the man angry, see the flush rush up, to be in control and powerful against one so experienced in the ways of the world.

"Please," the older man snorted, playful smirk resting comfortably on his face. "Like I would like to born of a country that has an obesity rating higher than it's literacy rating."

"That's not true!"

"I jest," the man said again, letting Alfred's heart turn summersaults in his chest. Alfred let out a stressed sound, thinking his honor was safe. That is, until: "Just like your government."

"Hey!"

"Alright, alright, I'm done."

"Good for you," Al replied back. Easy, carefree grin resuming on his face. This was what he lived for, most days, the banter. They already fought like a serious couple so it would be nice if they _were _one. But, if Arthur kept up that fear – the walls carefully and deliberately placed around his heart – then there would be no point.

Arthur shooed him out of the kitchen (MORE signs they were meant to be, his mind whispered in his ear) and had him sit. He was still tired, one can't walk away from researching at 2 in the morning like it's a walk in the park after all, and he rested his eyes a bit on the couch.

_He's so much more relaxed. _

He felt the presence move and sit beside him. He opened his eyes to two breakfast quiches (thankfully unburnt) and a mug of coffee. He smirked as his heart ached on the inside.

"Aw, darlin'" he said, putting a southern drawl to his voice. "D'you do that for me? Shoot, if I'd a known I would've gotten you something too."

Arthur bristled and a light flush came to his cheeks. He took one of the forks he was gripping in his hand and stabbed it into the quiche closest to him.

"Just shut up and eat your damn eggs." Alfred laughed, but did as he was told. He had skipped dinner the night before and all he had while he was working was a cup of coffee. After inhaling the first one, he sat back and began to sip his favored drink slowly, creeping on Arthur as he did so.

"So," he let the monosybilic word die in the air.

"Why were you so sleepy this morning? Usually you're up at six every bloody morning with the _birds_."

"Well, I was busy last night an-"

"What could have _possibly_ been doing at _midnight_?"

"Well," he drew the word out, holding for time and hoping Arthur wouldn't be mad. "I was doing some research."

"What kind of research?" the tone was slightly frosty.

"Well—"

"Quit saying 'Well'! There are over one hundred thousand words in the English language, _pick another one._" He paused to take a breath. "And get a move on."

"Alright, alright, don't go all British on me." Arthur's face flushed and Al felt his heart skip a little. In his heard he heard this little bit from a song play: _I love you, don't you see, you stole my heart in 1 2 3, I love you, yes its true, you stole my heart and I'm gonna steal yours too…_

"I was… doingthatprojectofyours."

The pause that hung in the air like the executioner's knife was filled with dread and anxiety.

"_What?_" Arthur's voice was so low and scary that Alfred visibly gulped.

"I was, uh, doing some of the research for, uh you…?" he felt his face fill with – manly! — flush. He looked at the man who, up until a few seconds ago, was adorable and cute. This version of Arthur was scary, dangerous, slightly sexy (curse his one track mind! But not really…) and really mad. Even angrier than the time that he mad fun of him for believing in fairies. Angrier than when he went to that punk concert with Arthur and got them thrown out after screaming about how the band should play Ke$sha for ten minutes. Not just nuclear angry, more like Mt. Saint Helens and that Icelandic volcano and that volcano movie where the volcano attacked LA _combined. _In retrospect, he regretted his decision.

"Where are my _things?_" he spat.

"On the desk… hey, you're not that mad are ya Iggy?" he got up after the fuming blonde.

Arthur turned on his heel and stared him down.

"_What_ did you call me?"

"Iggy? See I was talking to Kiku last night and he had a bad cell signal and only heard the 'English' part. And then he said Iga- igir- ig-, whatever, he said something starting with Ig, and that made me think that Iggy would be an awesomely cute nickname for ya!" Alfred said this all quickly.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Some… complaints, if you will." He paused. Al grinned. At least he wasn't as mad anymore. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" Scratch that. "That assignment is for me and me alone, I don't need bloody handouts. I can do it all fine on my own; I don't need help from the likes of _you. _I'm leaving. Don't bother me again, you stupid, barmy _nancy_." He stormed towards the door, ripping it open. "And I am NOT fucking cute. Git." And with that note of finality, Arthur left the Apartment, the door swinging back after it slammed into the wooden frame.

Alfred was speechless.

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Arthur had one thought as he rode the subway towards Gil's and his apartment.

_I would much rather be _Dead_._

_Have you heard the news that you're dead?  
No one ever had much nice to say  
I think they never liked you anyway…_

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[Author's Note (2 of 2)]

This chapter was a bitch to write. Sorry for the long wait. I just need to be perfectly angsty when I write Artie and Al… that and I've got a podcast I'm hosting that has just stolen all my creative ability…

And I don't like how it turned out. But I pushed through because I had this dream where I had a reviewer who was asking me why I wasn't updating every week. It scared me a little.

Thank you to all who read and equal thanks to my reviewers. It makes me feel accomplished when y'all write in.

Also, just had to tack this on, but I have a fictionpress account for those of you who actually like my writing style (its hard for _me _ to believe): my pen name is TheGirlWithTheSunInHerEyes… yes _another _Beatles reference.

References:

The Gits… I just picked a more recent punk band from the states, kind of an impulse. I listened to one of their songs on YouTube (Cut My Skin It Makes Me Human) and it sounded a lot like the music Artie would be listening to, considering the timeline. And just cuz it's a recent band doesn't mean he doesn't listen to classic punk bands.

Peter Pan. My favorite book by a Scottish author (number two is Miss Jo Rowling). I can seriously imagine Arthur wanting to escape to such a fantastical world, scoffing at the pirates, playing with the fairies and dancing with his own Wendy-bird. If you want a good idea of the actual book, though I recommend you read it, watch the 2003 version.

_Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_. Not only did I recently get this CD and love it, but I also think it fits the mood perfectly. It also was a album, that at the time was an _alternative_ song set compared to what The Beatles had produced. In addition, I have a theory that all British people have all the lyrics memorized and the song was just cute to put in there.

The volcano movie Al was referring to is a rather good movie called, ironically, _Volcano_. There's a really creepy/heroic scene where the lava is coming up through the subway and a subway driver sacrifices himself to save a passenger and is BURNED ALIVE! ON THE ACTUAL TV! I thought we had ratings against that….

The song is "Stole my Heart" by Little and Ashley. Its actually an awesome alt-pop song that I love. Got it for free from amazon too. Speaking of which, check out my livejournal (Find "|a|n|a|l|y|z|e| by missinisterred") where a put a huge list of how to find free, legal downloads of alternative music.

"Dead!" By My Chemical Romance. Many would argue their more of an emo band but certain songs, like Dead!, are more alternative/punk songs. They're usually the only songs I like by them, like "I'm not Okay (I Promise)". Their shorter, faster, rockier songs are best.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur scowled at the pillow, tastefully embroidered by himself, and considered punching it again.

Gilbert, who was hanging off the loveseat legs sprawled over the armrest, was likely _ruining _the integrity of the chair.

"The way I see it," the albino said, grabbing a few more chips and popping them into his mouth. "You need to apologize."

Arthur snorted. _Actually_ snorted with disdain. Gilbert was reminded of the man who ran the piano shop on 49th street with his girlfriend for a second. "Me? Apologize to him, for _his _wrong doings? That is the stupidest and most irrelevant thing I've ever heard. I think I'll just stop seeing him."

"First of all," Gilbert continued. "That's stupid, cause he's got all your stuff. Second," the man hopped off the couch and did a handstand above the bowl of chips. "You can't just leave him. You love him and shit." Gilbert did sort of a press up motion and dipped his head into the bowl, procuring a chip before dropping onto the floor. "And leaving people you love is _not_ awesome."

"Will you not do that? We have neighbor's below us, stupid codger." Arthur hissed. "And I don't love him." He sniffed at the air and dust rising from the floor. _I'm going to have to Hoover the carpets again… _"He's just someone I use for… company… from time to time."

"Psh," came the reply from the smirking mouth. "You want to _hug_ him, you want to _hold _him, you want to _fuck _him~" the German transplant sang under his breath. "When will you let go of that unawesome English pride and just marry him?"

"I wouldn't marry him because I _don't _love him and as for my ''English Pride', I believe Churchill said it best with 'Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference.'" Arthur smirked his own devilish smile, quirking his large eyebrows and getting up. But, to his dissatisfaction, Gilbert just followed him into the kitchen.

"But 'The greatest and noblest pleasure we have in this world is to discover new truths, and the next is to shake off old prejudices.' Suck on that mister hoity-toity English gentleman."

"Who said that, Captain Crunch?" Arthur mocked, reaching up to the cabinet and grabbing a box of tea.

Their relationship was a strange one. Both were loud, proud and intense partyers, to the point that one would think they would be incompatible. They did have their rough patches but the fact that they both enjoyed music to a fault was their linking factor. And when Gilbert wasn't seeing his mysterious Matt—who Arthur always seemed to forget about—and when Arthur wasn't busy gallivanting about with Alfred or getting wasted, the two could actually have pleasant conversations.

"No, like the _captain_ is cool." Gilbert scoffed sarcastically. "And his cereal rips my mouth up like a mother." He regained control of his ADHD-track mind and finished. "Besides, _arseloch_, Fredrick II said that. Stupid English _saukeral_, forgetting awesome world leaders…"

"You mean that bloke from that country that no longer exists? I thought you had finished that report bit about him ages ago?"

"I did, but he was so awesome~! Almost as awesome as _me_ and that's pretty fucking awesome. "

"Right. Awesome." Arthur replied shortly with a roll of his eyes.

"Your just jealous of my five meters of awesome." _There's that shit eating smirk again…_

"I think your mistaking meters for centimeters."

"Lies. All lies." Gil threw himself into a barstool at the counter and glared at the Brit, resting his head on his arms. "You would know if you weren't so much of a prude…" he, muttered, tracing a pattern on the countertop with his left hand.

"Just because I don't fancy staring at your naked form all day doesn't mean I'm a prude!" Arthur shouted, coloring at the thought.

"Oh yes, it does."

There was a silence. The unresolved issue still rung in Arthur's ears. _But why is it an issue? It was just a relationship, and not a very good one at that…_

"Hey, I gotta go see Matt."

"Alright then, I think I'll head to the coast a bit."

"Again? _Scheisse_, just rent a boat and be done with it."

"You know I can't bloody afford it, you twat. Just leave, you giving me a headache."

"Fine, see ya bitch." The albino said, dashing out of the room before Arthur could trounce him for the bitch comment.

After his anger subsided however, his façade broke down. He leaned against the counter and slid down slowly until he was resting on the floor. Reaching into the cabinet next to him with eyes closed, almost as if driven by some divine force, he opened the door, and retrieved a bottle of rum. He took a quick swig just to get that buzz back, to make him feel right.

He was so confused.

On one hand, he was angry at the git for trying to do something stupid like that, his older brother instincts kicking in. If he had done anything more serious than 'research', the repercussions would be grave.

But, somewhere, he found it undeniably sweet and somewhat romantic that he would do something like that. And for putting up with him when he was drunk and when he was blathering on about things while drunk. And for generally dealing with his rather prickly attitude.

He took another swig of rum.

The familiar alcoholic haze began to take hold and things seemed to shimmer a little in his gaze. That and he wasn't much to look at. He was a thin, pale man and he knew he wasn't as handsome as Alfred, or even Gilbert for that matter. _Stupid, stupid Arthur for thinking someone actually liked him._ He was destined to be alone and destroy any chance he had at a relationship. _He just…_ He took another drink.

Now he was in a right state. And somehow there was a leak above his shirt while he sat there and a few drops had fallen on him. He hid the bottle back in the cabinet and pushed himself off the floor.

He needed to see the ocean now. Take the subway out of the city and to the sea. It was a little cold for beach goers so the entire shore would be empty. New York City may be nice, but it wasn't as close to the water as London was.

He put the tea in a thermos, tossed some biscuits, a towel and sunglasses into his backpack, and slipped on his blackened out shoes, with the Sex Pistols lyrics carefully written in silver sharpie, on.

From his dark blue hoodie to his "War's No Fairytale" shirt to his ripped jeans and DIY shoes to his button-covered-safety-pin-held-together backpack, he was back in his punk attire. And it felt good.

No one would bother him on the subway now, no one would do anything more but fix him with a stare he thought, stumbling out of the apartment, locking the door and affixing a slight scowl on his face.

He made his way to the nearest station, putting a slight swagger into his walk, quirking his lips in what he hoped was a smirk or a dangerous look akin to his punk nature.

As soon as he was on the subway, he pulled out his worn iPod and put on the first thing his thumbs landed on. As the strains of Propaghandi and Anti-Flag's more recent work blasted through the headphones, Arthur watched the other people in the train and switched to the black of the subway tunnels when the people got boring. When he finally reached his stop he had moved all the way into Star Fucking Hipster's "Two Cups Of Tea".

Arthur walked through the mostly empty streets, his mood brightening with the smell of ocean air. He reached the Long Island Sound and looked across the waves crashing on the shore.

The constant in-and-out tidal flow, the lack of sound other than the waves, the lack of people; Arthur thinks of the poem he had to memorize in secondary school.

_Only, from the long line of spray _

_Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, _

_Listen! You hear the grating roar _

_Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, _

_At their return, up the high strand, _

_Begin, and cease, and then again begin, _

_With tremulous cadence slow, and bring _

_The eternal note of sadness in._

He ripped the towel out of the bag, laid it on the sandy dunes and sat on top of it feeling small and defeated.

He exhaled, wishing he had thought to steal a pack of fags from Gil, and sat.

Listening. Hoping for…something.

The Brit was so confused.

He wanted, somewhere deep down, to fall in love and have someone who cared about him. But he didn't trust himself not to get hurt if it went wrong. There were too many variables, too many possibilities and too many chances for him to fuck it up.

_I'm approaching a fork in the road, going very fast… too fast… and there's two ways for me to go. I can take one road or the other, they both have pro's and con's. But I can't pick. Not fast enough or well enough. I'm just so confused…_

He should just leave Alfred, avoid his old haunts and forget the whole thing. _But, _he thought, _if even thinking his name leaves a dry lump in my throat and a feeling in my heart I cannot simply describe, I don't think I'll be able to do it. After all, _he continued to himself, much akin to Alice's little monologues in Wonderland, _I am a failure at escaping the past. I will slip up somewhere._

And while he sat there, a song filtered through his headphones forgotten at the end of the towel.

_Goodbye my almost lover_

_Goodbye my hopeless dream_

_I'm trying not to think about you_

_Can't you just let me be?_

_So long my luckless romance_

_My back is turned on you_

_Should've known you'd bring me heartache_

_Almost lovers always do_

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Meanwhile, 23 blocks over, Alfred was bemoaning his current situation to his half-brother Matt, who was, in fact, the Mysterious Matt that Gilbert was on his way to meeting.

"Mattie, urrrrrgh, heeeeeeeeeelllllp." Alfred drew out the word sounding like a bad _Finding Nemo_ impersonator.

Matt simply sighed and looked his half brother over. The normally tall energetic and hyperactive older brother was still tall but now moaning, wailing and disheveling his couch.

"What is it now Al?" Matt had been kicking Gilbert out, telling him he needed to get to class, promising to see him later and watching him walk down the street from his window when his door had been flung open and his half-brother had barreled into the room and landed on his couch. After he had just picked up the pillows he and Gil had… He blushed at the thought.

It was extremely hard to imagine that the moaning mass on his couch was the older brother. Al was loud and obnoxious, and not that Matt didn't love him, but he was almost at his wits end on a daily basis. It had gotten better now that Al had some 'Artie' person in his life. This… outburst… could only mean one thing.

"Al, did Arthur break up with you?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe." Was the mumbled reply.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" he asked with a sigh, knowing full well that he wouldn't be getting to class today. Though his grades could handle it, he hated having to go up to his professors and ask them for the notes. He absently wondered if he would rather leave this big anonymous city and move back to Canada and live as a recluse in the wilderness with Gil.

Of course, he continued in the same vein, Gil would be hard to convince.

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How Matt and Gilbert met Matt considered nothing short of a miracle.

Matthew made it a point not to go out too much, not that anyone noticed him coming or going anyway. _Except for the odd Russian who lived a few blocks away. _

But that didn't really count.

However, despite his tendencies, he trekked to the music store once a week to check and see who had a new CD, whether or not some of his favorite Canadian bands were making it big and if there was anything on his absolute favorite of all time bands had any new CDs. He was moving through the Radiohead discs, his second favorite band, and was about to walk towards the M's for Manchester Orchestra when he noticed the albino.

Wearing tight black skinny jeans and a white shirt with something scribbled in German on it, he looked the picture of the classic skater/goth looking for more tunes to jam to and/or bemoan. Matt was a little star struck, intrigued not only by the fact that he was shouting to the salesgirl about not having a disc from some obscure band and tossing 'awesome' into every other word, but the small yellow bird that seemed to be hiding in his silver hair. Not to mention he was very handsome.

And he was standing in front of the very CDs he wanted.

He stood there, debating whether or not to ask him with that stutter he'd developed to please move or just stand there awkwardly until he moved or he should just go home and try again la—

"Hey there." The voice of the albino startled him.

"H-hello!" Matt squeaked. Another bad habit he'd developed over the years.

"You need the Manchester Orchestra CDs? I mean, they are the only awesome band this side of the world. I would know, I'm made of awesome." He was staring right at him. Not through him, not over him, not mistaking him for his brother. Directly at him.

"Me?" he was so shocked at the occurrence that his brain simply quit working for a moment. He just stared back into those red eyes.

"Fuck yeah, you. Only an awesome person like you would like an awesome band like MO. What's your name, birdie?"

"Mat-t-thew Williams."

"Jeez, st-t-tutter much?" He laughed a grating laugh that on others would seem akin to a serial killer. He could feel himself getting mad, after all, his stutter wasn't _that_ bad, but he was Matthew Williams. He never said much to anyone.

"Just-t give me the CD."

"Which one?"

"_Mean Everything to Nothing, _d-duh." Matt felt proud for adding that little bit in.

"WHAT?" The man screeched blocking the CDs like a secret service agent for the president facing down a bullet. "And pass over _Like A Virgin Loosing Her Child _and _Nobody Sings Anymore_? _Mean Everything_ is their worst album!" He looked at him with scrutiny. "Are you on crack?"

That was the boiling point for Matt.

"No I am NOT on crack and _Mean Everything_ is their _greatest_ album. Clearly _you_ haven't listened to it." He sniffed. Then as he realized what he had said, he clasped his hands over his mouth. This guy could easily take out the slight Canadian.

He looked at the Matt with something in his eyes that he couldn't place.

He began laughing a la the lunatics from _Silence of the Lambs._ "You've got spunk kid. The name's Gilbert Beilschmidt. We need to discuss this awesome topic further. Come on." He grabbed Matt's wrist and began dragging him out of the dusty shop and into the late afternoon air. He let out a squeak that sounded oddly like 'maple' while his safety conscious internal self was screaming at him to scream 'stranger danger' or 'rape' or something. Inside him a tiny voice was telling him he normally would never do this and that it was strange would eventually lead him to getting hurt or murdered. But a louder voice, more confident and something he hadn't heard since his hockey days back in Canada told the other voice to shut the hell up and enjoy the ride. And it was nice, in a way.

Where Gilbert was gripping his wrist felt like it was on fire. And he wouldn't let go either, even when they had slowed slightly at the intersections. Matthew wanted to ask but was a little frightened of another outburst.

He could feel the change in the air though.

Somewhere, some divine entity was smirking, Matt could sense that. The air felt different, as though his glasses were seeing more than just the colors that existed. This person was _supposed_ to be in his life. He could tell.

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After they had spent a day discussing the merits of the various albums of Manchester Orchestra ("The only awesome band that isn't German") in a small coffee shop (owned by "my dorky little brother and his gay Italian friend") Gilbert declared that Matt was _almost _as awesome as him (Something that "Has never happened in the history of _ever_"). And the side of Matt that Gilbert saw wasn't what everyone else saw, or saw _through_ for that matter.

Gil could get under his skin, Matt could insult him and he would just reply with some come on, Matt didn't even speak to him with a stutter halfway through the discussion.

Their relationship that began a month after they met was rocky. They could read each others minds but still remain enigmas to one another. Gilbert never wanted to admit he legitimately liked Matt. Matt didn't like to tell others they were dating. He didn't like the risk of his brother going 'hero' and destroying something or someone. Gilbert could be an ass most of the time.

But, somehow, it worked. No matter how hard they fought, they still stuck together.

Perhaps, in the enigmatic lyrics of one of their favorite songs, they simply fit together.

_Well, she found a love and he found a victim,_

_He thought it was strange, she knew it was meant to be._

_She wore white and he wore the black suite,_

_She gave him no lies, she gave her innocence._

_From day one it seemed she'd wake up from the day dream,_

_But irony bleeds, seeing as he was a nightmare._

_She'd give him the world, he only had to ask her_

_But controlling yourself is easier when you're sober._

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And now Matt was listening half-heartedly to his brother's talk. The fight. The time between. The loneliness. The hurt. The confusion. Bringing him back. Arthur's weird confession of sorts.

It sounded like another MO song, and a favorite of his:

_Several Women's magazines_

_Stacked up on top of a picture of me_

_When I tried to call_

_No one answered_

_It's not even that I'm all angry_

_Just wanna know why you would do this thing_

_You said, there's an understanding_

_I offer you a small dog in the kitchen_

_I just wanted you to feel at home_

_And that's why I'm fine_

_I am fine, I am fine, I am fine_

_I just need 100 dollars_

_And I am fine, I am fine, I am completely fine_

_I just need 100 dollars_

_From you_

_And you and you_

_And you and you_

Andy Hull was talking about this song once on a show somewhere, Matt remembered idly during the stream of babble that came from Alfred. It was about him and his wife, getting into a fight that wasn't really about the 100 dollars he'd misplaced. It was build up of other things and the anger at the confusion.

Otherwise known as the same situation that Al and Arthur were in right now.

Matthew sighed again.

"Al?" he asked, interrupting the constant flow of words. "Have you told Arthur any of this?"

"NO! I haven't talked to him since he ran out this morning."

"Al, you shouldn't be telling me all of this, you should be telling him."

"But, but," He looked, for once, a little scared. "Mattie I need your advice! Besides…"

"Besides what?"

"What if I say the wrong thing again and he gets mad at me?" He looked at Matt in all seriousness. His eyes seemed darker now. Older.

"Alfred, I'm going to be completely honest with you. If its meant to work, it _will _all work out. Trust me on this one."

He was quiet for a moment, processing the words. "Wow Mattie, never pegged you for a romantic."

Matt's reply was to pick up a pillow and smack his brother in the face. Alfred's response was to laugh hysterically and begin hitting back with a different pillow.

"Birdie~! The awesome me is here!" Gil entered the room and looked at his boyfriend, though he wouldn't easily admit that, having a pillow fight with someone _other_ than him.

"Matt, who the fuck is this?"

"Oh, G-g-gil! I didn't know you'd be b-back so quickly." Matt said, all giggles gone. His boyfriend had never met his brother and vice versa. And Alfred was already giving him a suspicious look.

"Gil, this is my b-b-brother. Al this is my, um, Gil ismyboyfriend!" he said the last part quickly. Gil walked over draping an arm around his shoulders watching Al get a little more protective of Matt with each step.

"So Matt," Gil whispered into his ear loud enough for Al to hear, making Matt flush. "When are you gonna ditch your brother and help me with my five meters of awesome?"

"Matt, who the fuck is this guy? I do not approve."

"We don't need your approval!"

"Hell yes you do if you're going to be dating my brother!"

"You know what? Fuck you. We're happy without _your_ intervention!"

"G-guys…"

"Oh yeah? I forbid you to see him Matt! He is a bad influence!"

"Oh I'm a bad Influence? I'm not the one _controlling_ my younger brother, you stupid _hurensohn_."

"Great Matt, you're dating a fucking Nazi."

"Racist _arseloch_. Matt did you hear what he said? Your brother is a racist!"

"Guys!"

"I'm not a racist! You're the one who looks like a goddamn Nazi!"

"I'm an _albino_, retard! It's a genetic condition!"

"_BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE HELL UP!_" Matt roared.

They both look startled. Gilbert was the first to react.

"Jeez, birdie, didn't know-"

"Gilbert, shut up." Alfred snickered. "You too Alfred."

"Here's how this is going to go down. Alfred, I'm dating Gil regardless of whether you like it or not. Gilbert, you better be nice to my brother or you're not getting any more pancakes. Now I want the both of you to apologize or there will be hell to pay. Got it? Good."

There was a tense moment. Both Gil and Al were looking at Matt with a look of disbelief in their eyes. Gil was the first to move.

"Alright Mattie, just for you. Sorry Alfred. The awesome me gets a little… over zealous sometimes." _So Gil has been making improvements in not being such an idiot. _

"It's alright. I shouldn't have called you a Nazi. I apologize." _And Arthur must be becoming a rather good influence on Al. _"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Maybe, do you know Arthur Kirkland?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh… you're _that_ Alfred."

"Arthur's been talking about me?"

"Yeah he's really hung up on you…"

"Really?" The excitement in his voice was easy to see.

"Yeah. He said he might come and get his stuff this afternoon so be on the look out." _Wow, Gil's being unusually nice. What's gotten into him?_

"Really? Mattie, gotta go!" and with that he rushed out of the apartment.

"Alright Gil. Tell me why you're being so nice."

"What? The awesome me can't be awesome?"

"Not if you're helping someone else."

"I'm getting tired of Arthur being all mopey and shit. It's annoying. And that brother of yours would never leave if I didn't give him a reason to."

Matt fixed him with a glance. He could tell. He could always tell when it came to Gil.

"Sure Gil," he chuckled. "Whatever you say."

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[Author's Note]

Another chapter that was difficult.

*Sighs* And I've been a little worried about getting my wisdom teeth pulled. I hate needles so going under the knife is the last thing I want to do. And I'm auditioning for this monologue thing. And I have all this summer reading to do.

References:

Man with the piano shop is obviously Rodrich and Elizaveta

The quotes are from Churchill and Old Fritz respectively.

The German words, I got them outta _The Book Theif_ by Marcus Zuzack in case you wanted to know, mean asshole, pig and shit.

Propaghandi and Anti-Flag are both American punk bands. For an example of their work, look up "…And We Thought Nation-States Were A Bad Idea" and "The Economy is Suffering… Let It Die." And I just found a punk clothes website and looked up a shirt or something which is how I found the "war's no fairytale" hoodie. It's not mine…

Star Fucking Hipster's are a New York City punk band. And "Two Cups Of Tea" is an awesome song perfect for Arthur, and is basically his more modern anthem, no joke. But it's more of an alternative/hardcore/punk band.

The lines about the ocean are from "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold.

The final lyrics are from "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy.

In case you've been living under a rock, _Finding Nemo_ is a movie where, at one point, two fish talk to whales by going hoooooooooooow arrrrrrrrreeee yooooooou? Instead of how are you? Very funny.

I am a PrussiaxCanada fan. Why? Because it makes sense. Not logical sense, just insane sense. That's all you need. And every story needs a little awesome.

Manchester Orchestra. Hands down, one of the greatest bands of this generation. Andy Hull is the lead singer of the band and a simply amazing man who is not only awesome but looks like a stunt double for the bearded guy in _The Hangover. _The songs I borrowed are some of my favorite, "100 Dollars" and "She Found a Love". The fight that they have over which album is the best is a common debate between MO fans. Personally I like _Mean Everything to Nothing _the best, but many older fans like _Like a Virgin Losing Her Child_ better. All their albums deserve a listen regardless of where your allegiance lies. This is my only other favorite band. That makes two total (the other being Airborne Toxic Event of course). LISTEN TO THEM. ((Also, true story about the song 100 Dollars. Hence why I love Andy Hull.))

_Silence Of the Lambs_ is a movie about serial killers. It's a classic and one of the greatest thriller's since Hitchcock.

I only read through it once because I'm in a little bit of a hurry. If there's any mistakes, that's concerning but not pressing.

Enjoy your summer,

VG4455


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